


The Secret Diary of Leonard McCoy, Aged 37¼

by the_random_writer



Series: Trek Tales [4]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Beer, Children, Divorce, Engineers, Explosions, Family, Gen, Illnesses, Limericks, Medicine, Memories, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Paperwork, Parenthood, Poisoning, Reconciliation, Regret, Sarcasm, Serious Injuries, Snark, Stabbing, Surgery, Trampolines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 12:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12108414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: Ten days in the life of Lieutenant Commander Leonard McCoy.Loosely connected to the previous entries in the series, but can be read as a standalone story.I have McCoy's ex-wife as Pamela Branch instead of Jocelyn Treadway. This fic addresses my theory of why they broke up.





	The Secret Diary of Leonard McCoy, Aged 37¼

**Stardate 2264-58**

Chief Medical Officer's Personal Log, stardate whatever the hell it says on the file. I'm a doctor, dammit, not an advent calendar.

Before I go any further, I want to make it _abundantly_ clear I'm only doing this under duress.

And what the hell's 'this', I hear y'all ask? Pull up a chair, kiddies, and allow me to shed some much-needed light.

Two weeks ago, some busybody back at HQ with too little work and too much goddamn time on their hands decided all of the CMOs out on the deep space, multi-year missions should now be keeping a personal log, the same way the ships' Captains do.

And before y'all open your useless pie-holes to grumble about the fact I'm complaining, you should know I'm supposed to do this new thing on _top_ of all of the stupid reports I already write. Because if there's one thing Starfleet doesn't have more than enough of to deal with already, it's paperwork and bureaucracy, right?

Shouldn't beak off too much, I guess. Listening to whatever I write's gonna keep _somebody_ in a job—some useless medical Admiral's equally useless sibling or child. You know the kind of useless I mean—the equivalent of a knitted rubber or a screen door on a submarine.

This new request is apparently all about managing stress, making sure the CMOs have a way to share the strain of the job, instead of keeping it bottled up inside, or letting it out in 'unpleasant ways'.

Their words, _not_ mine. I'll have you know I never let out _anything_ in an unpleasant way. Even my farts are really polite.

So I would like the ~~interfering jackass~~ extremely thoughtful person behind this to know I can manage my stress just fine as it is. I don't need to keep a goddamn diary, like some anguished, woebegone, teenage boy.

I'm warning you now, you make me do this log for more than a month, I'm gonna start writing dirty limericks in it. I'm already making a list of words that rhyme with 'Nantucket' or 'Venus'.

And I know my approach to handling stress sometimes involves a measure or four of whatever sauce I can get my hands on, which isn't always the healthiest or most efficient solution, but that's not the damn point! Y'all keep your noses out of my personal business, and I'll keep my nose out of yours, okay?

So I'm only recording this stupid thing because the Captain told me I had to.

Actually, no, that's not quite correct. Jim asked Christine to find a way to make me do it, and Christine threatened to contact my mom and ask her to send her my baby photos if I didn't follow Starfleet's instructions.

For the record, when I move on to my next CMO post (whenever that may happen to be), smartass, opinionated people will _not_ be considered for the Head Nurse's position. Preference will be given instead to candidates who are experienced in 'Knowing When To Shut The Fuck Up', especially if they're also familiar with 'Do Not Give The CMO Sass' and 'Nobody Wants To Know What I Think'.

Also for the record, if you want to make me do what I'm told, threatening to show folks my baby photos isn't really the way to go. You might not think it to look at me now, but I was an _adorable_ child.

So where the hell was I?

Oh, yeah. Complaining about being told to keep a CMO's log.

Seriously, people? I don't have time for paper-pushing horseshit like this, especially when I stop to consider how many members of this crew seem to have made it their life's ambition to give me an ulcer before I hit forty. Or an aneurysm, or a heart attack, or a cirrhotic liver, or whatever the goddamn dumbasses think'll do the most entertaining damage.

And the first person on this tin can of death who even _tries_ to remind me when I'm due for the big four-oh is gonna wake up a few hours later with a freezing cold speculum jammed into one of their delicate parts.

If you don't know what a speculum is, go look it up on the ship's computer. I guarantee you won't like what you find, unless you've got some _really_ serious kinks.

Okay. That's all the bitching and whining I have for now, so let's get on with this diary crap.

All things considered, today's been a real interesting day. Relaxing and uneventful for some, but stressful and kinda shitty for others. And when I say kinda shitty, I mean that in the literal sense.

Forty-eight hours ago, the Environmental Processing team did a flush of the food replication and recycling system. A fairly basic maintenance task, and something they do every five or six months to make sure nobody bleeds out of their eyes whenever they drink a cup of coffee, so it should have been a piece of cake.

The critical word in my sentence being 'should'.

Until some pretty-boy moron in red with all the wits and common sense of a lightly-tossed Shirazi Salad decided he didn't need to wear his gloves while he was changing out the components. And if that wasn't quite moronic enough, the walking bowl of salad in question also forgot to sterilize one of the bio-filters before he put everything back together.

FYI, the best Shirazi I've ever had was at a mom and pop place in the grounds of the Parsa Medical School in Tehran. Had it for lunch six days in a row, swear I tried to eat my whole body weight in it.

As of this morning, fifty-eight members of the crew are now on _extremely_ intimate terms with a beautiful, parasitic infection called Cryptosporidiosis. Nobody who caught it's immuno-deficient in any way, so they'll all be fine in a couple of days, once the parasite's worked its way out of their systems, with plenty of fluids and 500mg of Dexamycin to help them along.

Scotty's thoughtfully ordered up an extra crate of toilet paper from the Quartermaster's stores. And not the sandpaper-quality stuff us peons and proles are normally expected to use. He brought up the fancy, quilted, triple-ply stuff we're supposed to keep for the higher-ups and the VIPs—nice and velvety and soft. Should keep everyone and their poor, abused, whoopy chutes happy.

Scotty's also assigned the bowl of diced tomatoes with legs to emergency plumbing and sanitation duty, down in the guts of the lower hull. And yeah, I know that's a really terrible pun. The idiot was lucky enough not to catch the infection he caused, so the punishment seems pretty fair to me. If spending the next couple of months up to his elbows in piss and shit doesn't teach him to follow the rules and use his regulation equipment, God only knows what the hell will.

And if the _next_ bio-filter maintenance cycle leave half the crew with a raging case of Gangorian Clap, we'll all know who to point the finger at first.

**Stardate 2264-59**

I'm not gonna bitch about it as much today, but I'm _still_ only doing this under duress.

Jim, I hope you're enjoying what I've added so far. And don't even _think_ about trying to deny it—I know damn well you've been reading what I've been writing. You're the only person on this ship who's authorized to look at the file, and you forgot to reset the access marker after you closed it out last night. What the hell happened to that genius IQ?

Anyway, enough of my whining.

What have the fearless crew of the Enterprise been up to today, I hear you ask? As always, it's a long and complicated answer, and as so often seems to be the case these days, I'm gonna start with the engineers.

Someone almost as smart as me once said, 'Engineers like to solve problems. If there are no problems available, they will happily create their own.'

Ain't that the goddamn truth?

Some nitwit whose name I don't need to share (but who apparently has even _less_ common sense than Mister Shirazi Salad), thought it would be a good idea to set up a trampoline in one of the backup turbolift shafts. At the bottom of a three-storey drop, with barely two metres of clearance between the trampoline sheet and the floor.

You go ahead and have that reaction your rational brain now wants you to have. I've had it already, but I can wait.

Now, contrary to what y'all have been told, I'm actually not opposed to the crew having a bit of fun. Seventy-five percent of our people are under the age of thirty-five, and Lord knows they ain't gonna spend their off-duty hours weaving baskets or knitting socks. But for the love of precious baby Jesus, could they _please_ just figure out how to have fun in a way that doesn't end with blood loss, concussions or broken bones?

And why a _trampoline_ , for mercy's sake? Why can't they follow Mister Spock's example, and go play a few games of chess instead? Last time I looked, taking out an opponent's pawn doesn't come with a side order of bodily harm.

Hmm. On second thoughts, scratch that suggestion. Don't ever do anything just because Mister Spock likes to do it. Galaxy's got enough goddamn logic in it right now as it is.

And while I'm on the subject of chess, did you know our resident Vulcan _still_ hasn't managed to beat Captain Kirk? Not even once, in all the years they've now been playing?

I take back what I said earlier, Jim—guess you just _might_ be a genius after all.

So, the trampoline.

Interesting concept in theory, except wonder of wonders, the canvas wasn't quite as wide as the shaft.

Oh, man. Not quite as wide as the shaft. Now _there's_ a line you won't hear me say on a regular basis. Reminds me of a... social event Jim and I went to in Golden Gate Park back at the end of our second year. Talk about an interesting night?

Anyway, where was I? The trampoline, yeah.

Somebody please remind me again—what happens when you drop onto a taut, elastic surface from eighteen or twenty metres up? You bounce, _that's_ what happens. How high depends on various factors, including how much mass you have and how many gees you're working in. If you're lucky, you'll bounce back up in a straight line, but if you've spent any amount of time in space, or you're familiar with Mister Newton's Laws, you'll know that physics is a funny thing.

Sometimes, for reasons we won't go into in detail here, physics'll pull a fast one on you, and bounce you off to the side instead. Right into the turboshaft wall, or even better, right over the edge of the trampoline canvas onto the goddamn floor below. Because God forbid any of the trampoline-loving chumps should have taken even sixty seconds to install something as basic as a net.

And don't get me started on what happened to the heavier jumpers—the ones who stretched the canvas so far it actually touched the turboshaft floor. A two metre clearance from almost twenty metres up? Are you _kidding_ me?

Do not fuck with physics, people! Physics will fuck with you right back, and I can guarantee there won't be any foreplay or lube.

By the way, I lied about not sharing the name of the nitwit who arranged the whole stunt. What the hell am I, a priest?

Come in to shore Lieutenant McDonald, your time is well and truly up.

Seriously, people. Someone with more psychology qualifications than me _please_ explain what goes on in that woman's brain? You think she'd have learned her lesson after the incident with the water slide, or the disaster of the paintball game down in the lower hull, but apparently not.

And no, before you complain, I am _not_ forgetting my own role in the water slide thing—it simply isn't relevant to the discussion at hand. I already know _exactly_ what goes on in my brain, and I don't feel a burning desire to share with anyone back at HQ.

Whatever's motivating McDonald, two broken bones in her foot and another four days of admin suspension on top of what Jim gave her last year might teach her a lesson she's apparently still desperate to learn.

 _Might_.

If I were you, I wouldn't bother holding my breath.

Can't say I'm really surprised Scotty's kinda reaching the end of his tether with her. Had a late breakfast with him this morning, he told me how much he misses the good old days when you were allowed to use something called 'keel-hauling' to discipline people who pissed you off.

Don't know what the hell keel-hauling is, but it doesn't sound very nice. Although, I doubt it's any better or worse than a speculum shoved in a delicate region.

I'm also not entirely sure Mister Scott was only joking, either about wanting to keel-haul his people, or the fact it used to be allowed.

Anyway, the final tally out of the trampoline mess was one concussion, one broken arm, one dislocated shoulder, one slightly-busted ACL, one broken ankle and a couple of impressive black eyes.

Bunch of mouth-breathers, the lot of 'em.

Had them all fixed and back on their feet within a couple of hours, except for the crewman with the concussion, who passed out for twenty to thirty seconds after she hit her head on the floor. Thought it best to monitor her for axonal damage and intracranial pressure for the next twenty-four hours, so kept her in Sickbay overnight. Geoff'll check her again in the morning, look for signs of neuron damage and cerebral bleeding, kick her out if her metabolics are good.

**Stardate 2264-60**

Here's an interesting question for you.

When God created the universe and everything in it, did He or She create engineers for the sole purpose of pissing me off? Did He or She look at me sitting here all quiet and calm, a cup of coffee in one hand and a medical journal in the other, and say, 'That guy's life is far too dull, so hold my beer and watch this'?

To be fair, I don't even have the most right to complain—however much the engineers are annoying me, they're annoying their boss even more. Between McDonald's trampoline class and Ensign Adelusi's botched attempt at running a still, our Chief Engineer's not having the best of weeks.

That was the main thing keeping Chris and me busy today—fourteen cases of mild to moderate alcohol poisoning. Or maybe I should go easy on Adelusi and log it all as radiation exposure instead?

I've looked at the diagnostic results, and I still can't decide what did the most harm—the fact the stuff was 78% ABV or the accidental Cobalt 60 infusion.

I would worry about the amount of grey matter the people involved all managed to kill, but I'm not sure how much they had to begin with, if they thought it was a good idea to brew up a batch of radioactive hooch.

There was _slightly_ more wisdom at work in this mess compared to the now-cured and resolved Crypto disaster, but not a lot. We're talking the common sense of a chipmunk here instead of a Shirazi Salad, a ferret at the very most. Certainly not the level of smarts you'd expect from a sentient, thinking, intelligent, highly-educated engineer.

Did you know Ensign Adelusi finished at the top of his class? No, me neither.

So you'd think he of all people would know how to secretly hook up a reflux still in a way that doesn't accidentally expose the contents to a radioactive isotope burst.

Scotty's even more pissed off with Adelusi than he is with Lieutenant McDonald, but I think that's a territorial thing. He's never been much of a trampoliner that I'm aware of, but he's just as fond of his rotgut as I am, so he probably expects to be in on the act whenever someone's running a still.

I can appreciate that. Would be like me catching Christine and Geoff sharpening their beer pong skills on my favourite diagnostic holo-table. But that's _never_ happened. No, Vice-Admiral, not even once.

Didn't take much to treat the medical issues—glucose and oxygen for the booze, a shot to boost their leuko production and a quick liver and kidney wash to eliminate any gamma retention. I'll watch them until the end of the quarter, make sure they don't develop DNA damage or an electrolyte imbalance.

I decided against lecturing them on the risks of drinking poisonous hooch. Pretty sure everyone who tried the stuff'll be sticking to water or orange juice for at _least_ the next couple of months.

**Stardate 2264-61**

The galaxy fucking _hates_ me.

In a previous life, I must have had too much to drink and accidentally fucked the galaxy's mom. Or dad, or uncle, or brother, or sister—whatever offended the damn thing the most.

Here I was at oh-eight-hundred hours this morning, all proud of the fact that for the last month—one lousy, stinking, goddamn month—Captain Kirk hasn't suffered so much as a runny nose.

Janice also messaged me late last night to remind me that if Jim made it onto the bridge in the morning with his gold shirt still in one piece, it would be his 100th day in a row without a violence-induced clothing malfunction.

Now, before y'all go rolling your eyes, thinking that not destroying your shirt for one hundred days in a row should be something as easy as breathing or walking, let me ask you a simple question.

Have any of you _met_ James T. Kirk?

The 'T' apparently stands for 'Tiberius', but once you've known him for a couple of weeks, you'd be completely within your rights to think it stands for 'Trouble' instead. Or if that doesn't rattle your dangs, you could always go with 'Taking The Piss', 'Totally Gonna Drive You To Drink' or 'Trying To Give His Goddamn Doctor A Stroke'.

I swear the man can rip his shirt in three different but equally interesting ways just by brushing his goddamn teeth.

What the hell do they make the things out of—fairy wings and unicorn dreams?

I actually got to the point of thinking there was something wrong with the cloth, but I have never, _ever_ seen Sulu or Chekov so much as snag a thread on their shirts, much less rip the damn things in half. Half the women on the ship have seen Chekov take his uniform _off_ , but that's an entirely different issue altogether.

So today was kind of a big deal—an Enterprise moment well and truly worth celebrating. Like that time on the bridge a month ago when Spock managed to sneeze so hard he squeaked out a fart at the same time.

Oh, man. I am never, _ever_ gonna let him forget what he did. I've already come up with a Vulcan-themed flatulence joke that I'm only gonna crack when I'm about to shuffle my mortal coil. It's literally gonna be the last thing I'll _ever_ say. And I'm gonna do everything in my power to make sure the pointy-eared bastard's right there to hear it.

Anyway, enough about Spock—back to Jim and his ill-fated shirts.

Janice had messaged Chekov as well, and Pavel spent an hour or so creating this cute animation thing—a scorecard with a graphic he drew himself, showing Jim screaming and falling to his knees, then ripping his shirt in half down the front.

Janice brought a cake to the bridge, Pavel loaded his graphic on the main screen, the bridge crew gave the Captain a round of applause, Jim took a well-earned but embarrassed bow.

Sulu, being the expert with bladed weapons, kindly took it upon himself to perform the cake slicing and distribution duties.

A whole bunch of people in too small a space, all laughing and talking at the same time, all crowding in to claim a slice of Jan's homemade cake, and one of them's holding a knife.

You can just _smell_ where this is going, can't you?

Long story short—Hikaru accidentally shivved his CO.

It's just as well Sulu's never acquired a reputation for being the ruthlessly ambitious sort, or I'd have my suspicions about how 'accidental' the whole incident was.

Fortunately, the knife didn't go in very far, and even more fortunately, Jim managed to block it with a butt cheek instead of with his stomach or groin, so no major damage done, except maybe to his Captainly pride. Had him patched up and back on the bridge by the end of the hour, armed with a pair of comfortable cushions, and wearing a brand new pair of pants.

Christ.

If Jim starts ripping his pants on a regular basis as well as his shirts, he might as well turn up for duty naked, save us all the trouble of waiting to see what he shreds to pieces first.

Pretty sure there's at _least_ two people on the bridge who'd be all in favour of that. On the flip side, Nyota would be pretty pissed. She'd either relocate down to Engineering, or resign from the Enterprise altogether.

It's probably gonna be a while before we have cake on the bridge again. I would like to suggest we do something nice when I celebrate one hundred days in a row without a stupidity-triggered medical issue, but that's even less likely to happen than the Captain not destroying his clothes.

**Stardate 2264-62**

Not in the mood for chatting today, so don't really have much to add.

No significant illness or injuries to report.

Jim still has a really sore ass, keeps calling me from the bridge to tell me it feels all swollen and warm. Might bring him back for a quick once-over, make sure the wound's healing okay, and he's not having an allergic response to the antiseptic sealant I used. If he is, I'll add the stuff to The List of Doom.

Did you know Jim's _actually_ allergic to some anti-allergy medications? That's a level of bloody-minded perversity to which I can only aspire.

On second thoughts, there is something I want to raise.

The smartass who posted 'Why is the CMO such a miserable git?' on the Questions page of the ship's bulletin board can kiss me where the sun never shines.

You want me to smile and look happy, you assholes have gotta give me a decent reason, okay?

**Stardate 2264-63**

Now _that_ was a hell of a day.

Almost three hours in the OR with Christine, Geoff and two other nurses putting Crewman Licanin back together. She works in the Armoury, taking care of various weapons, was trying to change out a faulty cell in one of the older model rifles, got caught in the blowback when the damn thing exploded.

She's eventually gonna be okay, but the accident made a _hell_ of a mess, and not just to the Armoury floor.

Third degree burns to forty percent of her body, most of her right hand blown away, shrapnel wounds to her chest and face with total loss of her right eye, and a nasty, diastatic fracture right across her lambdoidal suture from the explosion throwing her into the wall.

Plus a bunch of minor but distressing issues—shattered teeth, burned hair, hearing loss, bruised ribs and facial contusions.

Nothing the five of us weren't eventually able to fix, although putting her hand and fingers back together took some patience and concentration.

I'm keeping her in for ninety-six hours, maybe longer, depending on how soon she comes round, and how well she responds to a post-injury psych eval. A nasty accident like that's bound to leave her with some emotional trauma, so I'm not gonna sign off on her returning to duty until I know for sure she's not suffering from cognitive issues or PTSD. She'll need a small amount of rehab work for her hand and vision as well, but she's young and in excellent health, so I don't expect that to be much of a problem.

I'm putting a note in Doctor M'Benga's file for the excellent job he did on her eye. I joke about having the steadiest hands in the fleet, but the way he repaired and rebuilt her ocular and connective tissues was nothing short of amazing to watch.

So you won't be surprised that I'm once again recommending him for promotion to Lieutenant Commander. Somebody with a lick of sense _please_ find this man a medical team of his own? He's the best second I've _ever_ had, and I'd honestly hate to see him go, but he's so damn good at what he does, he's honestly beginning to give me an inferiority complex. I'd feel a lot better if he was a miserable, angry bastard like me, but for some reason I don't understand, he insists on being all friendly and nice.

He _likes_ people. And even worse, people like _him_.

He can also seriously kick my ass at both poker and table tennis, which is an _entirely_ unacceptable state of affairs.

Which reminds me—it's almost time for the ship's annual Beer Pong challenge.

Scotty and I have been training hard, perfecting our bounce and arc shot techniques, so we're feeling good about our chances this year. We're either gonna reclaim our crown from Chris and Nyota, or get absolutely _hammered_ trying. And we've already decided what we'll do if we lose. Scotty's officially Nyota's CO, so he's gonna have her reassigned to the Temeraire or Yamato, and I'm gonna forge Chapel's thumbprint on an application for the fleet's medical conversion course.

Spock's being all high and mighty about the whole thing, keeps muttering about how illogical beer pong is, but I'm pretty sure that's actually just Nyota talking. Woman must think I was born on the moon. I've been playing beer pong for the best part of twenty years, and I have a PhD in Psychology, so I know a good psyche out when I hear one.

Scotty thinks we need to keep an eye on Masters and McDonald as well. As a team, they're not as good as Nyota and Chris, so they'll probably go out in the fourth or fifth round, but if we draw against them, they'll still make us work hard for the win. Especially if the referee allows McDonald to run her mouth while her opponents are making their throws. I swear, some of the things I've heard that girl say, she could goad an Organian into losing their cool.

Note to self—find out who the ref's gonna be, then check if they're scheduled for a physical soon.

Second note to self—find out what kind of beer they're planning on using. If I'm pushing my kidneys to the limit trying to take the Dynamic Duo down, it better be something I actually want to drink. A good amber ale or a heavy, and none of that cooking lager they put out last year. Pretty sure having to drink that swill was a big part of the reason we lost.

Oh, and before I sign off for the night to go check on Crewman Licanin's stats, there's one other thing I need to address.

Jim, I know you're not breaking the rules, but if you're gonna insist on reading my log, will you _please_ stop leaving a mark out of ten at the bottom of every goddamn page? You're a Starfleet Captain, for Christ's sake, not a holo-novel reviewer. It's kind of annoying, and unbecoming to the dignity of your rank.

Jesus.

Did I just put Jim Kirk's name and the word 'dignity' in the same sentence? What the _hell_ was I even thinking there?

**Stardate 2264-64**

Wonder of wonders, no major disasters or problems today.

The biggest issue I had to deal with was Lieutenant Elonat putting in for parental leave.

That's all perfectly within its rights, of course. Starfleet's long since learned the hard way that trying to restrict how and when its serving members choose to begin or join a family unit will only bring it a world of pain. It needs to be especially delicate in that area now, given the fleet still hasn't recovered from the loss of so many ships and people back at the Battle of Vulcan in fifty-eight. Bringing the numbers back up to normal's gonna take at _least_ another five years, so the last thing we need to do now is drive away the people we have.

Especially people as good and as smart as Elonat.

I don't know the being very well, but Sulu speaks very highly of it, and Spock once described it as 'extremely efficient'. Our XO's not the most effusive person when it comes to dishing out praise, so when he says something nice about you, it means you _really_ know what you're doing.

The biggest problem I'm facing here is how little I know about Darish reproduction. From what I've read up on so far, Elonat knows it's gonna propagate sometime in the next couple of months, but can't say precisely when.

Twenty years ago, when I was starting at medical school, the idea of someone making a baby all on their own, without at least one other genome involved, would've sounded kinda weird to me. Now? Not so much. That's something serving in Starfleet quickly teaches you to accept—love is love and family is family, whoever it does or doesn't involve, and wherever or however you make it.

And it's not like us humans have any right to go deciding what's weird and what's not. From what Elonat told me this morning, I'm pretty sure the Darish think how _we_ make babies is even stranger. It told me the process sounded 'unclean' and gave me this look I can only assume is its species' equivalent of wrinkling your nose in disgust.

Not gonna argue with it there. And for the record, it's only unclean if you're doing it right.

I'm gonna read up on it some more, then I'll sit down with Elonat, Christine and Captain Kirk, talk through the logistics and timing, get a handle on any medical or safety concerns. I want to be sure there'll be no impact to the bud if it develops while Elonat's still on board, instead of back home on Darat Prime.

That's something else we'll have to work out—how and where to initiate Elonat's medical leave. For religious and cultural reasons, it needs to have the baby at home, but the Darat system's all the way at the other side of the quadrant from where our mission plan's due to take us.

Hmm. Think I might stick to the medical issues, leave the travel logistics to Jim.

I know Elonat's super-keen to get back to Darat as soon as it can. Can't say I blame it. A first baby's a really big deal, regardless of the process or species.

You should've seen _me_ in the run-up to Joanna being born. You'd think with the number of babies I've delivered over the years by one method or another, that my own daughter's birth would've been a walk in the park.

Nuh uh.

I've had a whole bunch of people tell me I was so tightly wound while Pam was in labour, that if you'd stuck a piece of coal up my ass, I'd have crapped out a diamond by the end of the day.

So it's only natural that Elonat wants to be home with its parent, siblings and clan when it's first kiddie arrives.

Note to self—find out if the Darish have an equivalent of a baby shower.

Second note to self—ask Hikaru what the _hell_ a baby shower involves.

**Stardate 2264-65**

Did y'all know I'm not the only Leonard McCoy in the fleet?

I didn't twenty-four hours ago, but I sure as hell do now.

Seems there's a Marine Corps Lieutenant by the name of Leonard T. McCoy stationed at the UFP Embassy on Sarelia Five. I don't know the Lieutenant from Adam, but I _do_ know he's very recently married, and his wife has an _amazing_ rack.

Before you go jumping to any nasty conclusions, let me explain.

Turns out Lieutenant and Mrs. McCoy just celebrated six months together, but due to travel restrictions and conflicting assignments, had to spend the occasion apart. Mrs. McCoy decided to send her husband a _very_ special video message—something to keep him nice and warm through the long Sarelian nights.

That special video message ended up in my inbox instead.

Not sure how the hell that happened, if the mail routing system had a bad day, or if Mrs. McCoy had a bad case of flutter fingers.

If I'd been paying closer attention, I would've realized the message wasn't for me before I told the computer to play it. There's no Anna McCoy in my family that I know of.

That's what happens when you start reading your mail before you've had your first cup of joe.

If I didn't need the caffeine injection before I viewed the young lady's message, I sure as shit needed it after, I can tell you that. Might even have topped it up with a shot of something slightly stronger, just to help me get over the shock.

I sent a note back, letting her know the delivery system had picked the wrong guy, and that I've deleted her original message. I'm not expecting a counter-response.

But man, that _rack_.

Out of politeness, I won't say more, but the other Leonard's a _lucky_ guy.

**Stardate 2264-66**

Forty-eight hours of total calm, then back to having a shitty day. But this time, not for the usual reasons.

It was quiet on the medical front—the worst problem I had to deal with was Yeoman Ochoa looking to refill his contraceptive appliance.

The boy's about to get lucky, I think. Good for him, and nice that someone other than Chekov is.

I'm glad Sickbay was quiet though, because it meant when the letter arrived, I could hide in my office for the rest of the day, not worry too much about being disturbed.

This time, the letter was from my ex-wife, Pam, telling me she's married again and expecting a baby at the end of July. She's taken on her new husband's name, so she's going by Pamela Haraldsen, now.

I know I don't really have the right, but I'm kind of annoyed. When we got married, she told me she wanted to keep her own name, partly because she thought taking mine was old-fashioned, but also because changing it to McCoy would've meant having to update all of her legal and board registrations.

I guess the process to modify professional papers is easier now than it used to be, huh?

Not that it matters.

Pam's letter hit me real hard—harder than I'd care to admit—and made me think of my baby girl.

Can't believe it's almost ten years since she died. If she hadn't passed, she'd be a few months shy of turning eleven.

Jesus, can you imagine that? Me, a father to an eleven-year-old girl? I sure as hell can't.

I'll write back in a day or so, once I've had some time to think about what I want to say, let Pam know I'm happy for her, wish her the best with her new husband and baby.

For selfish reasons, I hope it's a fella instead of a filly.

Pam also apologized for what happened when we divorced, admitted she accused me of things she knew weren't true and went overboard with the legal proceedings, said I could have the house in Virginia after all.

Not really sure what to make of that. Better late than never, I guess.

It's nice to have the apology, but I'm not sure I'll take her up on the property offer. The Virginia house is a beautiful place, but I've made my home on the Enterprise now, so when the hell would I ever be there to use it?

Plus, it would only remind me of Jo. The garden out back's where she took her first steps. How the hell could I ever go there again without wanting to burn the place to the ground?

Maybe that's why Pam's so willing to let the house go—it brings back memories she doesn't want to remember, either.

Suppose I could always sell the place, find another use for the money. Donate it to a children's charity, or set up some kind of scholarship in Joanna's name. Yeah. That'd be nice.

It's strange, though, how I felt after I read the letter. Not angry and bitter, the way I would have two or three years ago, just sad and tired and full of regret for all the ways our marriage went wrong.

I guess it might just be true what they say—time does eventually heal all wounds.

Well, maybe not all.

I’m getting over what happened with Pam, but no amount of distance or time'll heal the loss of my baby girl. There's not a single day that goes by when I don't think of her in some way or another. Sometimes, I wonder where I would be if she hadn't drowned in that pool. Would her mom and I still be together, would we have had another child?

But I also have my paranoid moments, when I'm not sure Jo existed at all, and convince myself she was only a dream.

I know that's just my guilt talking, though.

I should have been there when it happened. And I should _never_ have said her death was Pam's fault. For all her flaws as a spouse, and God knows I had enough of my own, Pamela was an amazing mom.

And will be again, once her new baby arrives.

I'll mention that when I write my reply, apologize for the things I said, explain it was grief and anger talking, tell her I don't actually blame her for what happened that morning in Marietta.

If there's a day in my life I'd choose to do over again if I could, that's it. I'd stay at home with my beautiful girls instead of running off to Geneva to help out on the Trematon case.

I can still remember that horrible moment, coming out of the surgical suite, feeling all proud of myself and pleased as punch that the team had allowed me to put Trematon's skull back together, to see those policewomen waiting for me, telling me there'd been a 'problem' at home.

Me and my career ambitions, always getting in the way.

Took losing my baby girl to realize that all the qualifications in the world don't mean a goddamn thing if using them keeps you away from the people you love at a time when they need you the most.

I made that mistake once, I'm not gonna make it again.

My dad's gone, my sister's gone, Joanna's gone and Pamela's married to someone else, but I'm not gonna lose the family I have now on this ship. They're a bunch of crazy, ulcer-inducing bastards, but they're _my_ bunch of crazy, ulcer-inducing bastards. I'm gonna be here for all of them, whatever the universe tries to throw in our way.

 _Including_ Lieutenant McDonald.

Which reminds me. I need to go have a chat with her, find out if she wants to take another shot at our interrupted movie night. Still not sure it's a good idea, but I told her I'd do it, and if there's one thing my mama taught me, it's that a gentleman never goes back on his word.

Pretty sure a gentleman's not supposed to go watching fake, Vulcan porn movies either, but that's an argument for another day. An argument I sure as shit ain't _ever_ gonna ask my mom to weigh in on.

**Stardate 2264-67**

Praise the Lord.

The offering has been accepted, the Elder Demons have been appeased.

I know that sentence probably breaks a whole bunch of regs, but if the ~~assholes~~ bureaucrats back at HQ don't want me to describe them as demons, they gotta stop trying to make my life hell. They don't like it, they all know _exactly_ what they can do—fire me, demote me or shut the fuck up and find some other poor bastard to pick on.

Sorry, Jim, but looks like this is the last recording I'm gonna make.

Ten days of listening to me bitching and whining and telling them all kinds of stupid shit about trampolines and beer pong and cake, and pen pushers back at HQ have all decided they've heard enough. Got an update message from them this morning, letting me know they're not concerned about my emotional health, so no longer need me to fill out a personal log at the end of each day.

And ten entries is all it took. _Ten_. That's gotta be some kind of Starfleet record, right? Or something that comes with an achievement ribbon to pin on my greys? Something pretty and shiny, for Officially Driving My Bosses To Drink? Not that I'm the only person on this ship who's got a talent for that, of course. The guys at HQ might want to order the ribbons up by the gross. We could hand them out in the mess hall at lunch.

Wonder what the final straw was. On second thoughts, never mind that. What was the _first_ one?

And here I'd only just decided what dirty limerick I wanted to tell y'all first. Still gonna tell it, even if it's only the Captain that reads it. I think you're gonna like this one, Jim. Genius or not, limericks are just about at your reading level.

_There once was a man from Winsocket,_

_who rode down the street on a rocket,_

_the force of the blast,_

_blew his balls up his ass,_

_and his pecker was found in his pocket._

Good one, huh? Never mind that dull as hell _Ad Astra_ piece someone recites at Academy graduations. I personally think this would make a _much_ better official Starfleet poem.

In all the years I've been an MD, I've never found anyone's pecker in their pocket, but I'm sure if I give it a couple of months, one of our imbecile engineers will oblige.

And no, you alcoholic, radioactive, trampolining, redshirted fuckers should _not_ go thinking of that as a challenge!

At least not until next quarter, you hear?


End file.
